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Andr0o

Published: May 17, 2014

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Literature

A Little Bit of Memory Loss

A room filled with hate, A room in the dark. Rooms fill this space, They bleed dry my beating heart. Without warning-- blinding light, Bring elation into here. Day is come, And my heart is burning. The morning's red, Inside my head, Bursting boozed, From last night's gin. Hair of the dog goes in, Burns a bit down. Without warning-- blinding light, Bring elation into here. Day is come, And my heart is burning. Show me the light, I'll turn away, I'm amidst the night, That's just how I say, I'll be alright. ...But don't trust me, I'm a liar, you see?

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Life Needs a Little Bit of love

Lovino Vargas smiled faintly despite the small tears the slipped down his cheeks. His dark brown hair covered his eyes as he was looking down at something he couldn’t believe. There in front of him was Antonio, who he’d known since he could last remember, on one knee, rose in one hand and a ring in the other. Three familiar words forms a questioned Lovino had been dying to hear his entire life. A hand was held over his gaping mouth until it would turn into a smile and a nod would be received. Only then did Antonio stand, slip the ring on the Italian’s slim finger, and bring him into a tight and joyous hug. That’s when

Literature

A Simple Little Rhyme

Jack and Jill went up the hill to take a pill up at the till upon the sill just for the thrill yet felt a chill as they fell ill then had a spill upon a drill and they were killed.

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Little Lion

Little lion, you've finally been found Free of the blood with which you've been bound Escaped from the tower, eluded the hounds and now you've managed to make a sound

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dreamer

by all the gods, is she lovely— the sweetest lullaby i have ever heard. and her fingertips soothe this raging nightmare which roars inside, a decaying dragon that one too many knights have slain. if i could worship at her feet i would. alas, her temple is guarded by pale clouds and a witch's moonlight; only ravens may find their way into her tower and break her chains with a featherweight kiss. i do not feel her embrace every time the darkness whispers. no, it is only when the ice in my veins burns hotter than the sun and my voice is lost in the supernova that hides itself behind a black hole. it is only then that she is there,

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You are More.

You are more than a number, statistic or fraction, You are more than a stranger’s glance or reaction. You are more than a puzzle piece or a missing link, You are more than what the world may think. You are more than a stigma or sign which you're labeled, You are more than “special”, diseased, different, disabled. You are more than a whisper, you are more than a name, You are more than rejection, you are more than others' blame. You are more than vibrations that torture your ears, You are more than disorder that drives you to tears. You are more than emotion you can't read or display, You are more than the words you’

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Beautiful Disaster

You came to me- a sinner with wild eyes and saw me as an angel. I had flowers in my hair, you had blood on your hands. You saw my love as a halo circling my flyaway hair and thought my forgiveness to be wings that could lift my frail body into the air. But I got down next to you on hands and knees and showed you the slits in my soul, the imperfections marring my body. Yet you still looked at me with wonder in your eyes saying my heart was still more pure than a human's would be. And slipping my small hands in between yours blood slid between them, staining my hands along with yours and I promised you I'd save you if you saved me, too. A

Poetry

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things i've learned from punching walls.

i. walls are hard. ii. walls do not protest. even when you're pounding holes into them after your last fight with your parents or that day where you were feeling nothing was real. iii. wounds heal. but in the time in between, your knuckles are peeled back like oranges and hot showers feel like death and people ask too many questions iv. you may not feel it the first time v. it will inevitably hurt. sometimes you'll feel it after the twenty fifth time or the moment you're about to buy groceries vi. you won't always cry. but there will be times when you will become a waterfall and pound into the rock in front of you as if it has been keepi

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borderlines.

i watch you tread gently on the edges of yourself, remaining in the penumbra between all and nothing - a sub-atomic mystery unable to be solved. yesterday, you couldn't decide whether to fuse or fold back together and instead curled inward underneath your own spine like a rose crushed in a fist, only the fist forgot to show up and roses don't grow in hospitals. some days, love, you are almost radioactive enough to be a half-life. i think this is the saddest thing of all because on those days i find myself believing you might just make it.

Literature

Love or Homicide

She watches her children struggle through the pain, Fully aware their efforts are in vain. Twice in her life, with no amount of ease, She witnessed a death by this horrid disease. The mother tried her best to comfort and pray As her loved ones worsened with each passing day. The years drag on with no end in sight. Her mind starts a war over what's wrong and what's right As she recalls the pleas they made in the past, Begging for her to make that day their last. Now, she resolves, their attempts won't be vain. She'll free her children of the increasing pain. Two shots bring them peace and ends their ordeal While their mother gain

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Bulimia

And she's unfurled string In the closet room, A red dress against A black-and-white world. She's crying butter tears As she tries to be sugar-free And extra light, Feather lips and feather fingers. She bubble wraps her ribs To insulate her heart, Trying to keep something in As she forces everything else out. She's got a bucket full of words on her bedside, Vomiting poetry at the dead of night, Throwing up angry words and monsters, Clawing their way up her throat. And she's spilt acid On the bathroom floor, Fingers in her mouth and nails against her neck She can't stop retching secrets.

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Got bored on Kongregate, so I wrote a parody of "A Visit from St. Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore (apparently)
Gamer3X: "This is entertaining as hell for some reason." "...I found myself just leaning on my elbow. Waiting for the next post for a good 10 minutes." "

Awesome shit almost always stems from something random"
pureinsanity175: "

Mature

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